Soothsayer
by penelope lemon
Summary: James has one too many problems aboard his ship while crossing to Port Royal. A stowaway proves to be more trouble than he initially thought, but a secret she harbors may be the key to catching Jack Sparrow and rescuing his Elizabeth.
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 **Stowaway**

"Lieutenant," Gillette calls from the main deck, "I think you should come see this."

James Norrington huffs for two reasons. One, because it seems his men are incapable of doing anything remotely useful unless he is there supervising their every move, and two because in the past few hours he's seen more on this crossing from England than he's seen in all his years of sailing. And the thrill is quickly wearing off.

He pinches the bridge of his nose to try and release the tension in his head, bracing himself for whatever his officer is about to show him. "What is it now Gillette?" he asks, and he doesn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice.

"The men found something in the cargo hold," was Gillette's vague reply.

With a sigh, James rises from his perch on the forecastle ladder and makes to follow. He replaces his cocked hat as Gillette leads the way towards the hatch, lamenting the fact that his few minutes of rest was cut so short. As they cross the deck, heeled boots clipping along the wood planks, his gaze finds the governors daughter still standing next to the boy they found drifting not ten minutes ago.

"Has he said anything?"

He didn't mean for his voice to sound so harsh but he's tired and irritated. Elizabeth jumps and spins around, words tumbling out of her mouth in surprise. "His name's William Turner, that's all I found out."

He attempts to offer some words of encouragement but the best he can muster is, "Very good." He has more pressing matters on his mind, like what was in the cargo hold that required his attention so badly. Surely the sailors could handle anything they found down there. Still, he feels a twinge of regret pass through him for scaring the girl. She's only trying to be helpful. She watches him with wide brown eyes, hands clasped behind her back. Her freckled nose flares as she draws a breath, lips pressed together like she has a secret she wants to share but cant. She's still young, years before her season, but James knows that the governor will have his hands full when the suitors come knocking.

He nods to excuse himself and follows Gillette's retreating figure down the hatchway. The smoke from the merchant ship, now likely at the bottom of the ocean, still clouds the air and leaves a sharp, lingering smell. When they descend below decks the suffocating smell subsides, but only to be replaced with the musty, dampness of the hull.

Between the merchant ship wreck, the boy in the water, and now whatever was in the cargo hold, the would-be easy, routine crossing was quickly turning into so much more. James has half a mind to ask for a promotion and an increase in pay at the rate he's going.

Four decks down and the ship is dark and smells of human sweat. There are three other men below, including Gillette and James. A sailor lights a lamp and hands it over to James, who lifts it higher. A warm glow falls over the cargo hatch, casting shadows from supply crates and barrels filled with gun powder. The wood creaks and groans as if protesting their presence in the quiet and reclusive belly of the ship. James squints through the dim light and moves closer to whatever the sailors are standing over, Gillette close at his side. As he nears, he notices Gillette's features are pinched with a frown, and wonders if the officer has been wearing the expression since he called him down to the hold. James had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice.

The sailors step aside as he nears and he finally sees what all the commotion is about. Wedged between a box of ammunition and a large crate of steel parts is a woman and a young girl not much older than Elizabeth.

The frown on James's face deepens and he can feel the headache that has been dogging him all day. A pair of stowaways is the last thing he needs.

He crouches down, setting the lamp at his feet. The girl sits with her knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, and looks between him and who he assumes is her mother. They have the same slightly upturned noses. Bare feet peek out from under layers of tattered skirt and a shift, black with dirt. She's skinny with sharp cheekbones and circles under her guarded eyes. Her collarbones and shoulders point like a wire hanger. But she's nothing compared to the mother. James shifts his gaze to the aforementioned woman, and it doesn't take long to surmise that she's dead. Her skin is waxy and whiter than the canvas sails, with cracked lips and sunken eyes. Her hair, streaked with grey, is frizzed and falls limp on her shoulders. Her head hangs at an odd angle but the rest of her body remains upright, pinned between the two crates. James reaches forward and wraps his hand around her foot, also bare, and feels for how cold and stiff they are. She's solid as a marble statue. She hasn't been dead for long.

He sighs and pulls his hand back. He can feel Gillette's gaze on the back of his head, and the sailors are probably waiting for him to say something, but he finds himself at a loss for words. He's dealt with a stowaway once or twice before, but never this far from a port, never with a young girl, and certainly never with one that had died half way through the journey. He briefly wonders how the two managed to stay hidden for so long.

"We tried to get 'er to talk, but she won' say anythin'," one of the sailors mumbles and it takes all of James's self control not to roll his eyes.

Of course the girl isn't going to speak. She likely watched her mother die some hours before, leaving her alone on a strange ship with strange men, and the questions forming in her head were likely par to the questions forming in his own head. If he was stunned to silence, she was smitten to reticence.

He reaches up and rubs his hand over his face, trying to think. He glances back at the girl. She's coiled tightly within herself, ready to spring at any moment. Her eyes are hard as they flicker back and forth between James and his men. He notices a surprising lack of fear in them but he can't deduce what's there instead. When he moves closer, she doesn't shrink back into her mother's corpse. She levels with him cautiously.

First and foremost the girl needs food and a look over from the ships doctor. Some warmer clothing wouldn't hurt either. He rocks back on his heels and stands up, taking the lamp with him. He turns to the sailors.

"I'm sure your attention is needed elsewhere," he says evenly and one by one they disperse back to the upper decks. He turns to Gillette and says softer, "Fetch the governor, tell him what we've found."

"Not the doctor?" the lieutenant asks and James shakes his head but offers no further explanation.

The officer nods and weaves back towards the ladder to the main deck, leaving James, the girl and the body. With a sigh, he sets down the lamp on top of a barrel ivory, and rubs his fingers along his temple.

James has exactly zero experience with children, as was the case for most of his men aboard the ship. The few that do have wives and families go months—even years—before seeing them in between voyages. There are a few scullery maids from the governor's entourage that he could probably call upon, but they were young women, most often single, and employed for house care. They weren't much better suited for the task he had in mind.

If anyone were to get the slight stowaway out of the cargo hold, away from her dead mother, and in the presence of the surgeon, it would hopefully be the fatherly words of comfort from the governor. He had raised Elizabeth almost entirely on his own, and as unorthodox as it was, it proved most beneficial. He had experience with children, young girls especially. Perhaps he would know what to do and what to say.

James glanced at the girl again. She wasn't looking at him, but rather stared off into some other part of the cargo hold. Again, he tried to decipher the look on her face, but she remained passive, almost calm, and James wasn't sure what to make of it. He turned his attention to the ladder as he heard voices and two pairs of boots ascending. Gillette returned, closely followed by Governor Swann.

The governor's wiry grey brows were pinched with hesitant tenderness. His eyes quickly went to the girl, once they were close enough, and the look deepened into pitying frown. He either didn't see, or purposely avoided looking at, the dead woman.

James quickly stepped back as the governor, barley acknowledging him, went to the girl and crouched down. Gillette came to stand beside him and the two waited in reverenced silence, watching Governor Swann lean over the girl and begin talking in a soothing, gentle tone. He spoke too softly for either of them to hear what was exchanged.

James couldn't help the hurt in his pride that came with asking the governor for help. He was a lieutenant, after all. He's lead hundreds of men to conquer territory along the south African coast, fought naval battles with the French off the West Indies, and now heads a crossing to the new harbor town of Port Royal, but god forbid a little girl get the best of him. He should be the one getting the stowaway to the doctor's quarters, but with everything that's happened lately, he's not sure he's in the best state to coax her out of her hiding place. Like luring a frightened fox from its hole.

He's a creature of self sufficiency; people ask him for help not the other way around. Calling on the governor makes him feel more like a helpless teenager than a lieutenant. But the stowaway seems to have gotten the best of him. He makes himself set aside his ego because for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what will happen next. He tries to cover his slight embarrassment by reminding himself that it was his brilliant idea to get the Governor. Had he not suggested it, they likely would have never gotten the girl out of the cargo hold.

He watches with Gillette as Governor Swann leans forwards, and two twig like arms wrap themselves around his neck. He stands up and turns to the officers. He holds the girl in his arms, her face nuzzled into his periwig and his hands hooked under her shoulders and knees. Without a word, he carries her towards the ladder and in the direction of the surgeon's quarters.

Gillette looks at him.

"What do we do with the body, sir?" he asks.

James purses his lips and looks back at the dead woman, laying between the cargo.

"Wrap her up, but keep her below decks. The girl can say her goodbyes and we bury her at dawn," he says slowly, then remembers the boy and the sunken ship. "We'll have a ceremony for the lost merchant sailors as well."

Gillette nods.

"You and Groves oversee the men searching the wreckage. Notify me if they find any survivors other than the boy. Bring along any goods that haven't been destroyed as well."

Another nod, then, "Sir?"

James looks at his companion, who seems hesitant to voice whatever is on his mind. But James has worked with Gillette for too many years not to know what he's thinking. He's always been too concerned with the wellbeing of others.

"I'm fine, Gillette," he sighs and offers a smile to reassure him. "Just make sure everything goes smoothly, will you? I've had enough excitement this voyage. The sooner we land in Port Royal the better."

"Yes sir."

Gillette turns and leaves. James takes a few minutes, reveling in the silence of the lower decks. Or rather, almost silence. The ship rocks lazily, its timbers groaning against the movement, but no one is shouting orders or reporting trouble to him. It's a nice change of events. He sighs, grabs the lantern, and goes to check on the girl.

He knocks on the door to the physician's room and opens it. The ships doctor sits at a wooden table next to the stowaway, who now wears a wool blanket. He looks up as James comes in, says something to the girl who is slumped in her chair, then stands up and indicates to his Lieutenant that they should talk in the passageway. James steps asides as the doctor closes the door after them.

"She's well enough," the older gentlemen sighs to him. "Malnourished obviously. Governor Swann mentioned the dead mother, so she's likely mourning her loss. She's not saying much but as far as I can tell she's not sick or injured."

The doctor finishes with a shrug.

"Thank you, doctor. And the boy?" James asks.

"Same as well," he replies, "Water in his lungs and exhausted from swimming but doing fine otherwise. He's been sleeping since he was brought on board, and the governor's daughter can't seem to leave his side," he smiles briefly, "I suppose we'll see by morning whether either of them makes it but I can't imagine we'll be burying more bodies than we already are."

"I should hope not," he answers, "Will you stop by the galley and have the cook bring up a plate for the girl?"

The physician nods his head and excuses himself. James turns and opens the door. She hasn't moved from her position at the table. She swivels her head up and over to watch him enter the room and slowly take the seat across the table from her. He studies her again, and she scrutinizes him back. She has bright, intelligent hazel eyes that James would have noticed before, if he wasn't distracted with her flushed skin and hallow cheeks. She looks at him comfortably, like she's known him for years, and it unnerves James, especially because, try as he might, he can't seem to find any hint as to who this girl is and how she managed to sneak onto his ship. She's just been caught as a stowaway. She should be shaking with thoughts of keel hauling and over boarding and whatever rumors sailors spread to keep squatters away from the ships. She doesn't show any signs of fear and that annoys James for some reason.

"How are you feeling?" he tries but already knows what her reply will be.

She says nothing.

"Was that your mother, down in the cargo hold?"

Nothing.

"Have you a name?"

Again, nothing.

He leans forwards and places his forearms on the wooden table, lacing his fingers together. He tells himself to be patient with the child, but it does little good. This isn't a game he's playing. He needs information and her unwillingness to cooperate is trying his tolerance. He sits straighter to look more authoritative.

"Will you tell me if I guess it?"

He receives an answer for this, or rather a shrug of a shoulder as a reply. He can't help the twitch of a smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. She really is just a little girl.

"Alright, then," he says and leans back, the wood of the chair creaking with the shift of his weight. "Felicity?" he tries.

She doesn't give him anything, so he assumes it's not her name.

Something biblical perhaps.

"Miriam?"

It's not.

"Charlotte?"

She shakes her head no. James sighs and glances over at bulkhead of the ship. His gaze traces the caulking around the wood, the curve of the panels and the pattern of the grain, fishing for more names. Before he can guess another, the door opens and the cook enters with a plate, which he places in front of the girl. He leaves wordlessly and James indicates with his hand for the stowaway to eat. Her eyes flicker to the food—salt pork, peas and a slice of cheshire—before she lurches at the plate. She grabs up the cheese and eats it by the mouthfuls, never stopping to swallow or take a breath. James has seen wild dogs converge on garbage scraps the same way, and has a feeling that if he reached towards the plate, she would bite his hand without remorse. He watches her, nose wrinkled slightly at her lack of manners that would give even his most barbaric men a run for their money.

He waits while she eats. Disgusting as it is to watch, he's glad she has such a ravenous appetite. She looks like she hasn't had a decent meal in weeks. With her elbows on the table, her shoulder blades poke out of the top of her dress like two points of a mountain, a ridge of spine bones trailing down the valley of her back. She leans down and bites into the slab of meat cupped in her hands.

As she finishes, she looks back at James. She sits up and she licks her lips.

"Are you going to tell me how you came aboard my ship?" James asks after a long moment of silence. His voice is lower, softer, patiently waiting for an answer.

A few more minutes of silence stretch between them, but this time James decides he's not going to prod her with questions. He will wait until she gives him an answer, any answer. She just watches him with her wide, knowing eyes. James shifts in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest to let her know that he has no intention of speaking again before she does. She seems to accept the challenge, crossing her own arms.

Two could play this stubborn game of refusing to speak first.

Her face remains calm, placid, while James can feel his mouth curve with a frown as his patience wears thin.

The silence goes on.

Finally the girl shifts uneasily in her chair and James, thinking she's about to speak and that he's won their match, smirks at her in triumph. Her face pales considerably, she opens her mouth, leans over, and retches over the side of her chair. After weeks of living off pitiful portions of rancid food and falling asleep to the sharp pain of hunger, the rich food from the galley does not sit well in her stomach. The food itself is hardly satisfying, at least in James' opinion, but it's enough to set her stomach in a fray. The muscles in her abdomen seize and cramp as she doubles over again, gagging out the food she just consumed.

Annoyed and disgusted, James shoves his chair back and stands up, going for the door. He has three children on his ship now, two of which he knows nothing about. He did _not_ join the Royal Navy to become a _governess_.

"Evangeline," the girl sputters out before he leaves. He stops, halfway through the threshold, and turns to look at her. She's still hunched over, but her eyes meet his. There's a sheen of sweat on her brow and upper lip. "My name is Evangeline," she manages to say between shuttering breaths. Her voice is husky and rough with poor enunciation. When James imagined her speaking, it was softer and refined, nothing like the inflections that came out of her mouth now. Nothing like the way Elizabeth speaks.

"My mother called me Evie."

She says the last part quietly before her body is wracked with another gag. James turns and closes the door behind him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

 **Proposition**

There's a knock and the door to James' office opens.

"Governor Swann, sir," the privateer informs him then steps aside as Weatherby enters.

He nods and gives James a tight lipped smile, and James knows that something is up. Weatherby, though a great leader and an incredibly intelligent man, is not good at hiding his true emotions. He shifts uneasily. As soon as the young solider closes the door after himself, Weatherby crosses the office of the fort in a few hasty strides until he's standing against James' desk. James leans back in his chair, annoyed by his brisk advancement and invasion of personal space.

"You have to take her," Weatherby says in a hushed tone.

James raises his eyebrows, looking up at the governor.

"Who?" he asks innocently, but seriously.

"The girl," Weatherby replies with a hint of annoyance.

James sighs and pushes himself up from his chair, going to the window. Weatherby follows close by, eager for an answer.

They had been in Port Royal for a while now and gazing out over the bay James could still see the makings of a great port town. The docks were established well enough, and the fort had begun construction the moment his men's boots hit land. They had been building new additions since their arrival, and James recently gave the order to raise the west wall, which was now being outfitted with cannons. The town itself is sturdy, tightknit, but still growing at a rapid pace. It seems every day a new shopfront went up and there was suddenly more people to feed and protect and give shelter to. Urbanization. James thought he was a supporter of the notion, and knowing that Port Royal was prospering gave him encouragement, but he feels the weight of responsibility bogging him down and now he's not so certain he likes the idea.

And now Weatherby has another task to unload on him.

His eyes drift to the governor's house on the hill. Large, elegant, and brilliantly white in the high Caribbean sunlight. Elizabeth would be there now, likely practicing her French or some other frivolous know how at the hand of her governess. She's growing up quickly; James notices every time he's summoned to the governor's home. There's a second presence there, one who has overstayed her welcome according to Weatherby, though she tends to blend into Elizabeth's shadow until she's practically invisible. Meek, intelligent, but the similar wild streak that gives Elizabeth courage gives her sharp wit. Their two polaric personalities are like night and day; she's quiet, Elizabeth is outspoken, she's rough, Elizabeth is refined. The two have so many differences it's a wonder how they ever became friends, but even so, James often sees the two girls arm in arm around Port Royal, often trailed by that blacksmith boy, Turner.

"You were so eager to take her in when we reached Port Royal," James finally says, turning to the governor. "What's changed?"

When they docked, James had a hell of a time sorting out the trouble that was brought aboard his ship. They were able to pass off the boy to an old drunkard that would teach him blacksmithing. He proved to be very skilled with a chisel and hammer. The girl was another problem, for no one seemed eager to take her in. The governor volunteered to keep her until arrangements could be made. The house was certainly big enough, after all, and Elizabeth was thrilled with the prospect of having a "sister." Two years has gone by and James realizes that the arrangements have still not been made and Weatherby is ready to make him hold true to his promise.

He indicates to the leather chair for Weatherby to sit, and he does, James taking his seat behind the desk again.

He suddenly seems unsure as he fiddles with the ruffles of his sleeve. He clears his throat. "She…says things, odd things, and it's beginning to frighten some of the servants."

"How do you mean?"

"I can't really explain it without sounding daft," he answered plainly then sighed, "She keeps talking about things and places I'm not sure she understands. At first I thought they were just stories but lately they seem far too grim and serious to be coming from the mind of a sixteen year old—"

Weatherby stops abruptly when he sees the look on James' face. He smiles.

"Funny isn't it?" he asks. "She seemed so much younger that day she was discovered below decks."

James rearranges his face to a more neutral expression then urges Weatherby to continue with a wave of his hand. He isn't here to discuss that day, though he remembers it clearly; how slight she looked tucked between the cargo, how steady she seemed on a strange ship, how he had no idea what he supposed to do with her. Come to think of it, he still has no idea what to do with her.

"She speaks of things that are happening at present…" Weatherby continues and the corners of James' mouth turn down in a disbelieving frown. The governor hastily rattles on. "She once told me that if I went to the cellar I'd find the carriage driver with one of the kitchen maids. I played along, expecting to find Elizabeth hiding or something of the sort—assuming it was one of their games."

"And?" James asks.

Weatherby gives him an even look. "Well I can't imagine you'll have much of a problem understanding what I actually saw," he replies, "Needless to say the kitchen maid was turned away."

James sighs and leans back in his chair. "I still don't see why you can't keep her. It all just sounds like a bunch of tomfoolery to me. They're just girls, Weatherby."

The governor rubs his fingertips over his eyes. "I'm telling you James, she's strange. There's something about that girl." His lip quivers slightly, a tall tale sign from Weatherby that he was unsure of himself. James had come to recognize that quirk of his. Weatherby was always controlled, level headed, but the lip gave him away in the worst of times.

"What does Elizabeth have to say about this?" James asks. Lately it seems he cares more and more about what the governors daughter is doing. He tells himself to stop this silly infatuation, but then he's reminded that he's almost thirty and the time for marriage is quickly closing in. It doesn't help that Elizabeth is growing into her features; tall and willowy but still with the slender hips of a woman.

Weatherby shrugs. "She absolutely adores Evangeline. Elizabeth thinks it's quite whimsical that she can sense things as they happen," he replies with a sigh then adds, "Her words, of course, not mine."

James chuckles. "Governor I think you've been played a fool by your daughter and her friend."

Weatherby leans forward and thumps a fisted hand on the table, stopping James short.

"I haven't," he replies firmly, "Evangeline has been in my care for years now and I love her as much as I do my own daughter, but that's just it. Elizabeth is my _daughter_ and I must do what's best for her. Evangeline is a distraction and quite frankly I don't know what to do with her. She hasn't given me any trouble the way Elizabeth does, but something has that girl possessed. She knows things she shouldn't. One of these days it's going to get her into trouble."

"Her? Or yourself?" James inquires and there's warning in Weatherby's eyes. James knows better than to push the boundaries with Weatherby. Even though the governor considers him an equal, if not a friend, he still has the power to dismiss James.

"You forget yourself, James," Weatherby says.

James is silent for a moment. Weatherby's always been a sensible and amiable person, and the fact that he's frazzled by the girls behavior tells James that something must be going on. But he's talking about _otherworldly senses_ for heaven sakes. Things that don't exist. If James couldn't already vouch for Weatherby's character, he would politely suggest a stay at a bedlam.

Weatherby heaves an audible sigh and leans back in his chair. "She mentions you, you know."

James sits a little straighter and leans a little closer. "What?" he asks, noting that he should have been more articulate but is too stunned to care.

Weatherby nods and his smile is back. "I've walked past Elizabeth's room plenty of nights and I hear them talking and giggling. She'll tell Elizabeth about you, holed up in your office signing requisition orders…"

There's a flutter in James' chest and he is absolutely disgusted with his lack of self control.

"…They'll talk about the Turner boy too," Weatherby continues and James feeling in his chest turns sour, "Always bent over the fire with his metal work. Like I said, I thought they were stories but now I'm not so sure."

They were back on the very subject James does not wish to discuss. He nods slowly and glances out the window towards the bay. The girl makes Weatherby uneasy and he's concerned about her relationship with his daughter. James wants to keep him happy but he has no other options for her.

"Where would she stay?" James asks.

"Here at the fort," Weatherby says, "There's plenty of room. I'll pay for any expenses she requires."

"You mean the people's taxes will pay for any expenses," James mutters and Weatherby smiles.

"I knew you would come around," he says.

"I never agreed to it," James replies.

"I know," Weatherby says and rises, "I know how this sounds to you James. I thought I was going mad and I kept telling myself that it wasn't true, but Evangeline has a gift and I think you might be able to utilize it."

"I don't understand," James says, watching as the governor goes to the door and opens it. He leans into the corridor and says something inaudible. James rises to his feet as Weatherby reenters with Evangeline behind him.

He gives Weatherby a look. He brought the girl on the notion that James would say yes to taking her in, or perhaps he planned to arrive with her but leave without her despite what James had to say about it. Either way, he felt played because of it. He frowned, his gaze sliding to Evangeline.

She seems so much older up close. Her hair is a few inches longer and much lighter since she arrived in the Caribbean. Freckles spot her complexion and her eyes look at James with that steady gaze that makes him feel uneasy. After all this time, he thought he would be use to her eyes, but even now he finds himself shifting under their subtle scrutiny. He looks down to avoid her knowing gaze and sees that she is still barefoot. She wears a second hand dress of Elizabeth's, a pale blue that's an inch or two too short.

Weatherby, one hand on each of her shoulders, guides her to the chair and she sits.

"I don't want to leave you and Elizabeth," she says abruptly, her voice like rocks falling over one another; rumbling and dry.

"I know, my dear," Weatherby says gently, ignoring her quick plea, "But we need to sort this out. I know what you and Elizabeth talk about but we need to hear it from you. There's something…special about you. A secret you've been keeping?"

She looks up at him, her eyes wide but her brow set in determined defiance. "No," she says.

Weatherby crouches so that he is her height. It's such a fatherly, unassuming pose that James knows is supposed to ease Evangeline's reticent worry, but she gives no indication that it's helping. She meets his gaze, placid but listening intently.

"Please, Evangeline, I have my suspicions," Weatherby continues, "You…see things, don't you?"

She turns her head to meet James' gaze. He presses his lips to his hands, fisted around each other, as he watches her. She gives him a knowing look and though he can't understand how, he thinks he knows what she is trying to convey to him. He raises his head to speak.

"I think, perhaps, governor, that Evangeline and I should have a few words in private?" he asks.

Weatherby looks at him hesitantly before slowly standing up.

"Yes, well, if you think it would help?" he says.

"I do," James replies swiftly and watches as Weatherby moves towards the door. As soon as he is out of the office, James turns back to the girl, resting his mouth against his fingers again. "Is what he says true?" he asks.

She looks at him with lazy contemplation and James notes this is the first time they have properly spoken since their arrival to Port Royal. He's too busy these days to stop for leisurely chat, but he realizes that he knows about Turners commission to smith lengths of chain for the new ship being built in the dry docks, and Elizabeth's upcoming journey to London to visit her great aunt, but absolutely nothing about Evangeline and her seemingly unusual and elusive life. He feels like he should have some type of remorse for the neglect, but he doesn't, because he doesn't care.

"I suppose some of it's true," she says.

He waits for her to continue and is pulled back to a memory of the two of them below decks stubbornly waiting for the other to speak first.

"Even if I told you, you wouldn't believe me," she says.

James shrugs. "Try me."

She watches him for a long time, the silence stretching before them. "It's just gossip. The governor has been listenin' to too many stories and it's made him paranoid. This is nothin' but a game between Elizabeth and I and now he's gone and blown it out of proportion."

"You're lying," James says. He wants to believe it's just nonsense but Weatherby seems bent on the fact that she has some sort of gift, a sixth sense. Her stony look gives nothing away, not even when he calls her bluff, but she rattles her excuses. She's hiding something.

She snorts. "I pegged you for a more sensible man," she says, "A girl like me seeing the present? Seems like an old wives' tale."

"We never said you saw the present," James says slowly and her eyes widen slightly and he knows he has her trapped in her lies. The satisfaction of victory is subdued by his confusion and irritation at this whole conundrum Weatherby has brought on him. They were bored young girls, nothing more. James hums in fabricated thought. "How long has this been going on?"

Her gaze narrows accusingly. "You don't believe me," she says, "I knew you wouldn't."

"I believe that you have given Weatherby the idea that something is going on. I think that perhaps you have convinced yourself that you're more special than the rest of us. Do I think that you actually possess some type of clairvoyance? No."

"Clairvoyance sounds pretentious."

James leans his head against the back of his chair, rubbing his head along his hairline. His wig usually doesn't bother him, but right now it's as infurriating as the girl sitting across from him. They're talking nonsense and girlish fantasies and he feels like once again he has to be the one to negotiate some sense into the conversation before it unravels too far.

"I'm not lyin' James," she replies in a cool tone.

"Don't call me that," he says, "Its Captain Norrington to you and I'm just trying to be the voice of reason here."

She draws a long breath through her nose. "It's been this way for years. The ability of foresight passed down each generation. My grandmother saw the past, my mother saw the future and I see the present. My daughter will see the past and the cycle will continue," James shoves his chair back and stands up, moving towards the door. Evangeline twists around, her voice growing louder and follow him across the room. "I know how it sounds but you know nothin' about me James!" she calls after him. There's a brief pause, in which James grasps the door handle, ready to leave, before she speaks again. "I know about the day you received word of your father's death."

Her voice was quiet but the words echoed like cannon fire in his ears. James' head snapped around and he glared at her. She gazed at him steadily and continued.

"You read the letter in the courtyard because you were awaitin' the arrival of a squadron of new privateers. You didn't have time to excuse yourself to properly mourn. You waited _hours_ until you were finally in the privacy of your office, this office, before you cried. I'm not sure I've ever seen you drink but that night you emptied a bottle of rum and passed out on your desk in a pool of ink and tears."

James' hands curled in a fist around the gold door handle. His relationship with his father couldn't be compared to Weatherby's and Elizabeth's, but when the news of his father's death reached him, it struck a hole so deep and dark in his heart that he wondered if it would ever heal. His father was not a lovable person and rarely showed any amount of nurturing towards his only son. The only words of tenderness expressed to James were in subtle compliments of dignity and devotion and James quickly learned that so long as he was making his father proud, then it was the closest thing to he would get to a loving embrace.

Their relationship was strained at times, especially when James felt his father's credibility of him slipping away. He constantly searched for ways to prove himself, all while subconsciously knowing that it would never be enough. Though he spent his life seeking approval, James never felt bitter towards his father. He loved James, he just had a strange way of showing it.

The letter was a long time coming, and James thought he would be prepared when he received the news, but when he read that his father finally passed, it was as black and bitter to him as the stench of burning pitch. In the courtyard that day, he swallowed that despair until he could find a quiet moment, never letting on to anyone what he had just read.

He clears his throat, trying to banish the thoughts of that day. He carefully releases the door handle and walks back to the desk, stopping to stand beside Evangeline.

"Who told you that?" he asks. It must have been Groves. He was the one who found him in his office the next day and offered to stall the executions that morning so James could have time to clean himself up.

"No one," Evangeline replies. "I _saw_ it happenin'."

James' teeth grind together and he leans forward, placing both hands on either arm rest of the chair she's seated in. He towers over her and she presses herself further into the leather, not meeting his gaze. His breath, suddenly fleeting and shallow, tickles the fine hair at her temples.

"Stop lying."

She calmly looks up at him, but her hands in her lap are white as the wring together. "You know it's the truth," she says, "You remember the grey mornin' you found me in the cargo hold? We chose that ship because of all the other ships docked at the London Pool, yours was the only one that didn't result in us being thrown overboard, beaten or worse. My mother saw your face, she saw her death. She knew she wasn't goin' to live much longer so she chose the _one ship_ that she knew would keep me safe."

He recalls the way she seemed to know him the first time they met; her fearless stance and quiet authority. It makes sense to him now, but does nothing to ease his hesitation. He sighs and walks around his desk, taking his seat once more.

"Very well," he says and Evangeline relaxes some. "Very well, then," he repeats, trying to calculate his next move. His whole life has been a series of decisions, and now is the time to make one, but he isn't sure where to go from here. "If this is true—and I'm not saying it is—then why haven't you said anything before?"

"For this very reason," Evangeline replies with a wave of her hand, "No one believes things like this exist, but they do. People are frightened of things they don't understand, and they refuse to believe what is right in front of them. When they finally do come to a realization, it usually brings out the worst in man. There is no good business in my dealings."

James sighs and lowers his head.

He can't possibly take the girl in. Even if he managed to find a place for her the men would ask all sorts of questions and there's no way he can explain to them what's been discussed. He wishes he had never found her and her mother, then he wouldn't be stuck trying to decide her fate.

He stands up again and goes to the office door, yanking it open and calling for Weatherby. The governor slips inside, eager.

"Well?" he asks, his eyes shifting from James to Evangeline.

James' tries to control the anger in his voice. "You said we could utilize her. How do you mean?"

"So it's true then?"

"Weatherby!" James snaps as the governor looks at Evangeline as though he was seeing her for the first time. He grins, the wrinkles of crows feet at his eyes deepening. "What use is this news to us anyways? She can't predict the future. What good is the present?"

Weatherby looks at him. "She can tell us anything that is currently happening at this precise moment."

"That's the gist, yes," Evangeline says dryly, "I've only been tryin' to explain that for the last hour."

The two men ignore her and Weatherby continues, "She can tell you in what position and how many guns the Spanish ships off Kingston Harbor are carrying. And the trade. She can tell you your profits in Calcutta before the ships ever leave port. The French, pirates, the people of Port Royal. She can see it all, and now you can too."

James looks back at Evangeline, curiously watching their exchange. There's an uncertain look in her eyes James hasn't seen yet. Something sad. He marches to his desk and yanks up the parchments of ship designs, cargo manifests and artillery forms. He rolls up a map, looking at Evangeline.

"Is what the governor says true?" he asks.

"To some degree. There are limitations," she warns, "And repercussions."

James purses his lips and studies her. This time, she doesn't look back at him. She turns and gazes out the window at the port. If he could keep Evangeline close then she could prove to be most beneficial to Port Royal and the trading company. With her keen foresight they could monopolize the trade route and anticipate the actions of the French and Spanish. With her in the care of the British Navy, the town would thrive, James would be renowned, and she could be safe. A letter to Lord Beckett was already forming in his mind, but first she would have to prove her abilities.

"Come with me," he says, rolls of paper under one arm. Evangeline does as she's told, silently trailing behind him on bare feet. "We're to prove if all of this is in fact true," James explains to the governor, who is striding alongside him purposefully. He glances over his shoulder and continues, "If she is who she says she is, then she can stay at the fort under the command of the Royal Navy."


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 **Attack**

It's James' promotion today and the fort is in a frenzy. She isn't invited of course, but when she drags a chair to the north wall of her room, it gives her enough height to see through the iron bars into the courtyard. Men in red uniforms stride over the cobbled steps and the band members set up their string instruments under the shade of the lookout turret. She goes on her toes to see if she can spot James, dressed in his ceremonial uniform, but he's nowhere to be found.

Evangeline sighs and hops off the chair, which creaks in response. She would have liked to attend the ceremony, with high society ladies dressed in fine gowns, and navy men in their best hats, listening to the band play "God Save the Queen" while eating _hors d'oeuvres._ She glances down at her dress, a faded taupe with tiny red flowers hand sewn along the seams—an old dress of Elizabeth's—and fingers the blonde hair that lays limp on her shoulders. She certainly couldn't attend a formal gathering looking like this, but even so. To have been extended an invitation would have sufficed. Elizabeth is going after all, and Evangeline has known James for years since she had been consigned to see for the Royal Navy. They spend late nights together, stuck in that dark office of his pouring over maps and charts with Phillip and Theodore. He came to her for advice sometimes, when he wasn't sure whether to send his ships to Tripolitania amidst the civil war, or if he wanted to know which ports were selling the purest saltpetre. They speak often, usually of matters regarding the trade or enemy ships, and he knows that she is well aware of his promotion, and yet he hasn't asked her join the rest of the navy in the courtyard for the ceremony.

She glances at the window. She has a nice view of the courtyard, so long as she can get up high enough to see out. It doesn't matter that she was never summoned, she would be able to view everything from between the bars.

She wanders the length of the room the navy provided for her. She has a short bed in one corner and book shelf in another, filled with poems and trinkets Elizabeth brought back from her voyages around the world. A porcelain doll from Milan, a book of Shakespearian plays (that Evangeline still does not know how to read) from London, a lion figurine made of ivory from Algeria. A maroon aubusson rug takes up most of the cobble stone floor, a gift from the governor after their journey to Paris. A lifetime of travel, packed in her room, and yet Evangeline has never left the fort.

She walks along the rug pattern, twisting and turning with the design. The deal is simple. She relays current information to the Royal Navy and in exchange, they provide shelter and food for her. She's to be kept at the fort at all times in order to stay under the watchful eye of the guards. Since that day she proved to James her abilities, Port Royal and the East India Trading company had made their marks on the map. Under James's jurisdiction, and with her help, India had become monopolized, Port Royal fitted with the best defenses, and French and Spanish enemy ships kept at bay. The Royal Navy could not afford any harm to come to their confidant, their soothsayer, so James had taken every opportunity to keep her presence a secret. Few know of her existence at the fort, and even fewer know the gift she poses. It's a lonely existence, but necessary.

That is why she hasn't been invited to the ceremony. James wouldn't be able to explain away her presence at the fort since she was neither nobility or navy. It was best just to keep her hidden and let her watch from her window.

There's a knock at her door and she startles. She tugs the heavy wooden door open and finds Will standing in the doorway, grinning.

"Will!"

She hasn't seen the blacksmith in weeks. It seems he doesn't come around as often as he used to. Elizabeth too. They've both outgrown their youth and were now too busy with parties and commissions to remember the third half of their trio that had been brought together that fateful day on the _Dauntless_. He's thicker than Evangeline remembers; broad shoulders, a heavy brow, stocky hands.

"I've brought something to show you," Will says as he enters her room, and Evangeline notices the case tucked over his shoulder. He looks around the room. "It's smaller than I remember."

"How would you know? You haven't been around."

Will's face falls slightly and she instantly regrets her words. Will was her dearest friend and a kind soul. The last thing she wanted to do was make him feel bad.

"I am sorry. But I have been busy," he says, pulling the long case off his shoulder, "With this."

She moves closer to him "Let's see it then."

Will opens the case to reveal a beautiful sword, nestled in a silk presentation. He grins and it reminds her of when they were younger. He's eager and expectant and proud.

"You made this?"

"Yes."

"It's beautiful."

"It's for Commodore Norrington."

Her breath catches but she quickly recovers, looking up at Will, his brown eyes the color of bourbon and just as sweet.

"For the ceremony?" she asks and he nods. She lets out a happy laugh. "Brilliant!"

He closes the case and pulls the strap over his shoulder.

"The navy asked Mr. Brown to fashion a new sword for his promotion, but the old drunk passed it onto me. I think it's my best work thus far."

"It's lovely. James will be very pleased with it."

"You're certain?"

"Of course."

Will digs into the pocket of his trousers. "I got you something, from the money I made off the commission," he says and pulls out a white ribbon. It's creased from being shoved into his pocket. "For your hair, I thought." He hands her the ribbon, his cheeks growing warm.

She fingers the material, soft like goose feathers. She looks up at him, and pulls the top half of her hair away from her face, tying the ribbon in a bow to keep it in place. Her hair in tangled from the salty, humid air, and she wishes she would have run the ash wood comb through it first.

"How do I look?" she asks, "Ready to attend the ceremony?"

"You make a fine young woman," Will says.

"As do you," she teases, reaching up and flicking the end of his black horsetail with her fingers. He smiles.

"I have to go," he says slowly, unwillingly, and her smile flickers away like a candle snubbed out. "I have to present the sword to the governor, then I have to go into town for supplies." When she doesn't answer, Will moves closer, resting his hand on her shoulder. "I won't wait so long to see you again," he promises.

She nods, but there is still an empty feeling in her stomach as she watches Will duck out of her room as quickly as he had appeared. She waits a few seconds before going to the window and clamoring up onto the chair. She watches Will cross the courtyard, out of place in his leather, weather worn clothing in a sea of red wool and lace. She watches for a while as the final preparations are put on display and the guests start arriving, settling into their places along the walls of the courtyard. Navy men take their positions, standing at attention. After an hour or so, the governor and Elizabeth enter and it takes all her will power not to call out to them. How good it is to see Elizabeth again. Strong, beautiful Elizabeth, who would swiftly talk them out of the trouble Evangeline seemed to always suck them into.

The ceremony would be underway any moment. A figure passes by her window, a blur of white and gold and blue. It's James, his hat in his hands, standing at the edge of the crowd and observing the people who came to support his promotion. She places her hands on the bars and pulls herself onto her toes.

Handsome, noble James, with his aquiline nose and sea green eyes. His back is to her, but she has studied his face plenty of times during the quiet moments spent in his office. She can see the tension in his shoulders, his hands running over the brim of his tricorn.

"You clean up well, Commodore."

She tries to make her voice soft, but poverty has ruined her. It comes out a rough whisper that grates against her ears. Her face flushes as James turns to look over his shoulder at her. She leans back into her room a bit as he approaches the window.

"Are you nervous?" she asks.

"Terrified."

She's surprised by his answer. It's honest and vulnerable. He's typically so stoic, giving the careful, calculated answers that a navy man should, but in this moment, he's just James. Not lieutenant, or captain, or even commodore. James Norrington, a young man with wisdom and responsibilities beyond his years. The man who charges forth in the face of battle is suddenly unnerved standing before his peers. Evangeline smirks at the idea and voices her thoughts.

"Can it be that the elusive James Norrington has met his match?" she asks.

His eyes slide to the other side of the courtyard, where Elizabeth stands with her father, looking pale and bored. "It seems he has," he answers.

"I know that look," Evangeline says, watching the way his brow furrows in concentration. "You're up to somethin'. The ceremony isn't excitin' enough as it is?"

James gives and close lipped smile and looks back at her. "Is nothing private with you?" he asks and she shrugs. He sighs, "As it happens I've decided that today is the day to ask for Elizabeth's hand."

"Ah," Evangeline breaths, "So it's a woman then. The commodore can keep his composure starin' down the barrel of a Long Tom, but heaven forbid a bit of pretty skirt walks by."

She flashes him a smile and he replace his hat, turning towards the crowd. He seems unimpressed with her snark, and yet, she catches the flicker of a smile cross his lips.

"Brave face, boy," she says, just because she knows it will irk James. She watches him stride off across the courtyard to take his place as the drums begin their roll.

She watches the procession from the safety of her room, reminding herself that it's best she wasn't invited. Even if her safety wasn't a matter of concern, she still wouldn't know how to behave amongst the well heeled crowd. She would say something insulting or stupid, and embarrass herself. Then there is the matter of shoes. She rubs her bare foot against the back of her calf absentmindedly.

The ceremony dissembles and people wander around the fort to mingle. She catches snippets of conversation as guests pass under her window. Someone mentions James' proposal to Elizabeth.

She wants to be happy for Elizabeth. The two are a good fit for each other, a well respected commodore and a governors daughter, but there's a cloud of jealously looming over her head. Before the governor handed her over to the Royal Navy, she and Elizabeth were thick as thieves and just as wily. But as the years went by she saw less and less of her friend. Elizabeth rarely came by the fort now. Since Will was completely infatuated with Elizabeth, he was scarce to be found as well. Given the opportunity to entertain Evangeline in a damp room or spend a few precious moments with the girl who had saved his life was not a difficult decision to make. It has always been Elizabeth over Evangeline. The governor chose her over Evangeline, Will wanted her more then Evangeline, and now Elizabeth is taking away James as well. Evangeline is slowly losing the few people in her life that matter, at the hands of her incidental sister. She loves Elizabeth, but envy seethes at the edges of her being, making hate not so far off.

The voices in the courtyard grow louder and one of the navy men begins shouting orders. Chaos erupts and in a blink, Evangeline is back at her window. Men are matching with haste towards the docks, the woman looking unnerved as they flock together in the center of the courtyard. A familiar face passes her window and she reaches through the bars to grab his coat.

"Teddy!" she says, taking a fistful of his uniform. Her arm is jerked at an awkward angle against the steel bars, but she manages to keep a grip on his lapels. The lieutenant stumbles over to the window, looking up. "What's happened?"

"Elizabeth's fallen from the fort!" he calls, quickly stepping back in line with the rest of the men. "She's gone into the water off the parapet!"

Before she can ask more questions, Theodore is taking the stone steps around the outside of the fort and down to the water's edge.

She stumbles off the chair, imagining Elizabeth's fine features, and light brown hair, the dress she was wearing at the ceremony. She thinks about the salty taste of ocean water and its cool depths and she smells the tang of wet wood. She begins hearing voices and her lungs seize together, making her choke. Elizabeth wasn't breathing and now neither was Evangeline. She tries to draw a breath, but no air comes. Seconds draw until Evangeline fears she will drown herself, then suddenly there's relief and air and breath and Evangeline falls to her knees, taking large gulps; gasping.

" _Clearly you've never been to Singapore_."

Her vision clears and she sees Elizabeth. The navy arrives and surrounds her. James is there, his sword drawn. The governor reaches for Elizabeth. There's another man. A stranger. Dripping with salt water.

Evangeline grasps the air blindly until her hand collides with something wood. The end of her bedpost, maybe. She pulls herself onto her unsteady legs and watches the scene unfold before her.

 _"Commodore, I really must protest."_

 _"Carefully Lieutenant."_

 _"Pirate or not, this man saved my life."_

 _"One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness."_

 _"Though it seems enough to condemn him."_

 _"Indeed."_

The manacles snap around Elizabeth's neck and Evangeline feels the pinch of the cold metal at her own throat. Her heart races in time with Elizabeth's. She can smell the pirates' breath, sour and rancid with stale rum. There's shouting and the ringing of muskets as the privateers fire at Jack Sparrow.

The vision fades around her and Evangeline sinks onto the foot of her bed, the wool mattress sagging under her weight. She blinks a few times until her room becomes clearer. She's tired, and her chest still burns, as she imagines Elizabeth's will well into the night. She curls onto her bed.

Her mother knew how to control her visions. She practiced until she could distance herself from those she saw, no longer having to feel the pain and emotions that they did. She could extend her foresight well in the future, and it didn't drain her of energy quite like it did Evangeline. But her mother had died before she taught Evangeline how to master her craft. Evangeline had managed to sharpen her visions enough that they became clear in her mind's eye, but they always left her drained. She was beginning to worry that she would never be as great a priestess as her mother was. And at any rate, she hadn't found someone willing to sacrifice themselves for the soothsaying line, and she was already eighteen. The cycle would shatter under her defective abilities.

She breaths out a long sigh, her mind dancing between concern for Elizabeth's wellbeing and worry for her own self sustention. Even as her head hums, her body sinks into her bed with exhaustion. The pirate, his leering face, flickers through her memory once more before she falls asleep.

When she wakes it's dark out and the first thing she notices is that she is still in her afternoon dress. The second thing she notices is the smell of sizzling gun powder. Light ignites outside her window, a billow orange cloud of flames that illuminates the figurines on her book case. The fort quivers and a river of dust tumbles down from the ceiling. Evangeline throws herself from her bed and scrambles to the window. The people of Port Royal flood into the fort, their cries only a fraction louder than the sounds of the cannons booming off the top of the fort walls. A cannon hits the south turret and boulders of stone tumble over the fort as the corner wall is blown to rubble. The men stationed at the turret are launched through the air into the courtyard, their bodies hitting the cobblestone with a wet thud. Evangeline screams as another cannon flies through the air from the bay. It sails past the diminished south wall and whistles towards her end of the fort. She manages to wedge herself between the bookcase and the foot of her bed as the cannon ball strikes the parapet above her. The room crumbles in a plume of dust and smoke and she rakes her hands over her head, screaming.

The door to her room is kicked opened. James is there, one hand over his nose and mouth as the dust cloud settles.

"Evangeline!" he calls but she's too panicked to answer him. He climbs over mounds of stone and a thick wooden joist, reaching for her. "On your feet!" he commands, "We have to move!"

He yanks her up and she awkwardly climbs over the uneven surface of what was once her room. The only thing that keeps her moving forward is James' tight hold on her wrist, pulling her back up every time she stumbles on the loose stone. The two shove past her door, which hangs precariously on one hinge, and hurry down the corridor.

"Who is it?" she asks because it's not very hard to determine that Port Royal was under attack, she just wasn't sure who by. The French, maybe, but this was chaotic, bloodlust warfare, not a skirmish over territories.

"Pirates."

The words bleed past James' lips and Evangeline involuntarily shivers.

They turn down another corridor and he leads her up a tight staircase and she knows that they were headed in the direction of his office. She struggles to keep pace with his long strides up the stairs, almost tripping on the hem of her skirts.

There's a voice in the stairwell, shouting something that's lost in the tumultuous noise of the night. Evangeline turns to see a pirate bounding up the steps after them, his gold teeth glinting in the low light as he leers at them. She screams as he draws an axe, bearing it over his head, ready to swing down and slice her in two. James shoves her back, his free hand releasing his sword from its scabbard with a hiss. Her heel catches on the step and she goes sprawling, her hip smacking painfully against the stone. She looks up. James stands over her, sword locked against the axes hilt. He brings his booted foot up and it collides with the pirate's chest, sending him tumbling back down the stairs with a howl.

She pulls herself up, her hip smarting and droplets of blood on her elbows from scraping against the rough stone. James doesn't fare much better. The horse hair of his wig is coming undone, strands sticking to the sweat on his neck. The continue up at the stairs and reach the open walkway of the fort. From their position, she can see everything. The Royal Navy trying to keep the fort together on one side of the bay, the town smoldering in fire on the other side. In the water, a large black ship looms in a blanket of fog and smoke. She stares at the vessel, until James tugs her along and pulls her from her trance.

James opens the door to his office and pushes Evangeline inside. Weatherby stands by the window overlooking the bay, his face pale and waxy in the moonlight.

"Stay hidden," James says urgently to her, "And wait here until I come for you. Do not open the door for anyone else, understand?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. She barley nods her head once before the door is slammed shut and Evangeline is left in the quiet of the office. Weatherby comes to her, asking about Elizabeth, wondering if she can see his daughter, but she's too overcome and frightened to hear what he is saying to her. She shakes, willing the night to pass quickly, but the attack seems to last until dawn.


End file.
